Silent Watch

The darkness still bothered her, ever since that warm May night when she’d walked into her bedroom and seen the dark figure looming in the shadows. She slept with the light on now. Scratch that—she lay in bed with the light on. She didn’t sleep. If she was lucky, she got five hours of rest a night, spread out in twenty-minute intervals because every time the REM cycle kicked in, she’d jerk herself awake. The nights were the hardest, always bringing with them a threat that she couldn’t ignore.

“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry?” Beau replied. “At the moment, that’s exactly what I should be doing.”

She smiled to herself, knowing without having to see him that there was a telltale crease in his forehead. Most times Beau’s face was unreadable. Dark, stoic eyes, firm set of the mouth. But that little crease always gave him away. She’d seen it enough times growing up, and right now she heard it in his voice.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “They were FBI agents, no danger to me.”

“I disagree. The very fact that they want you to go into the city is dangerous.”

“They said they’d protect me.”

“Do you believe them?”

Sam remembered Blake Corwin’s determined brown eyes. “Yes. I think they’ll do everything in their power to keep me safe.”

“And what if everything in their power isn’t good enough?” Beau countered, his concern palpable over the airwaves. “What if someone recognizes you and calls the press? If this guy finds out that you didn’t die that night…” He let his voice trail off ominously.

For the thousandth time in six months, Sam wished she’d never chosen such a high-profile career. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting? Why on earth had she decided to model swimsuits of all things? She’d always done well in school, her grades good enough to get her into any college, but it had been the excitement of stardom that appealed to her the most. It helped that she had a body that was, as her friends always told her, designed to make men drool. She’d never minded flaunting it, strutting in front of a camera and making herself a public figure.

But she regretted it now. Although the police had assured her that it was unlikely the guy picked her just because of her celebrity status, she still got the feeling that she might have gone unnoticed, flitted under the bastard’s radar, if she’d just chosen another field.

“It’s a risk, I know.” Her voice softened. “But I keep thinking about that woman, Beau.”

Compassion filled his voice. “I know you want to help her, but at what cost, Sammy? Goddamn it, I can’t let myself even think about losing you. I almost did once—I’d rather not go through that again.”

She understood her brother’s concerns, and knew where they came from. Even before their parents died in a car accident nearly a decade ago, Sam and Beau had only relied on each other. Growing up with workaholic parents who couldn’t concern themselves with their children, she and her brother had formed a strong bond. As kids they’d banded together against their strict nanny, as teenagers they’d rebelled when their parents tried to force law school down their throats, and as adults they’d only grown closer. Beau was her constant pillar of support and the only person in her life who offered the unconditional love her mother and father hadn’t been capable of.

The first couple of months after the attack had been tough for him. For her, too. The Bureau had encouraged her to cut off contact with Beau, worried that the man who’d tried to kill her might be watching her brother. They’d kept surveillance on Beau for as long as they could justify the cost, but after months without any sign of the Rose Killer, they’d finally called off the guards. It was still too dangerous for Beau to drive up to see her, but they were allowed to speak on the phone now. And each time they hung up, he always made sure to tell her he loved her, as if he were afraid that if he didn’t he’d never get the chance again.

She knew he was scared for her, worried, uneasy about this situation. Hell, so was she. But Beau would never understand what Elaine Woodman was feeling at the moment.

Only she understood.

“I want to help her,” she finally said, balancing the cordless on her shoulder so she could wrap her arms tightly around her knees. “I want to help catch this guy.”

“Revenge, justice—is that it?”

“No, not entirely. I’m just…sick of living in fear.” She exhaled shakily. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in this isolated old house, miles away from civilization. I can’t keep jumping at every noise and shadow. I can’t put my life on hold anymore.”

Beau made a frustrated sound. “Don’t tell me you want to start modeling again.”

Even if I did, I can’t.

The silent reminder only made her eyes sting. No, she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction of crying one more tear. What he’d done to her had ensured that she’d never be able to model again, though only the hospital staff was aware of that. The nurses had seen the scar; of course, they’d been polite enough not to comment. But every time she stepped out of the shower she was reminded that her career was over.

Right now, however, that didn’t matter.

“I’ll never model again. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writing a novel.” She laughed humorlessly. “I’m supposed to be a writer now—might as well live the lie.”

“Then write a book. You don’t need to go back to Chicago to do it. Just lie low until this psychopath is caught.”

“But what if I can help catch him?”

Beau grew silent. She could picture the crease in his forehead growing deeper, more defined. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

The pressure in Blake’s temples eased the second he hung up the phone. A grim smile crossed his mouth as his partner’s words echoed in his head. She says she’ll do it.

He’d known she would, had sensed that Samantha Dawson wasn’t the type to sit idly by and twiddle her thumbs while the maniac who’d nearly killed her roamed the streets. He hadn’t, however, expected her to make up her mind so soon.

Hadn’t expected her to call Rick, either.

Shrugging out of his shirt, he headed for the motel’s tiny bathroom, which was no bigger than a closet and made him feel slightly claustrophobic. As he tugged at the zipper of his pants, he couldn’t help but frown. It shouldn’t bother him that Samantha had called to tell Rick what she’d decided to do, and not him. Both his and Rick’s numbers had been printed on that business card—so what if she hadn’t dialed his?

Still frowning, he stepped into the minuscule shower and turned on the faucet. He wondered, as the warm water splashed down his body, if it was inappropriate to be turned on by the woman.

Probably.

No, absolutely.

She was a victim, after all. Not to mention a witness in his case, which made his desire for her not only inappropriate but unethical.

You’ve been celibate for too long.

Blake reached for the small complimentary shampoo bottle, squeezed a glob into his hands, then lathered his hair. Celibacy. It wasn’t a state he liked, but since this damn case began sex was the last thing on his mind.

He’d learned the hard way what happened when he indulged in sex and relationships during a case. When he’d first joined the Bureau it had been easy separating his job from his personal life; back then his cases had hardly been life-threatening.

But when he’d transferred to the “Serial Squad,” as Rick jokingly referred to their unit, Blake’s ability to compartmentalize had been blown to bits. Bigger cases meant higher stakes. Higher stakes meant no distractions. And he quickly learned that his personal life was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

If she were alive, Kate Manning could probably vouch for that.

Hard as he tried to stop it, the thought of Kate slid into his head, making him sag against the tiled wall. He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Too much. Probably because this case reminded him of the case he’d been working when Katie died. The Rose Killer was as sadistic as the man Blake had killed two years ago, the man Kate had been profiling for him.

He dunked his head under the stream of hot water and tried to clear his mind of the serious redhead who’d gotten under his skin and grabbed hold of his heart. The serious redhead who was dead because of him.

This time he paid attention to the authoritative voice in his head. Yes, he had to focus. He had a case to solve. A witness to protect.

And feeling any sort of attraction to that witness was out of the question.

“God help me,” he muttered, his voice sounding oddly muted in the enclosed space.

Shutting off the water, he stepped out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he wiped away the steam on the mirror and examined his foggy reflection, wondering if he appeared as tired to others as he did to himself. Because, hell, he was tired. Tired and bone-weary and so close to the breaking point he could practically feel the ground under him beginning to give in. If they didn’t get a lead in this case—and soon—he knew he’d burn out. He just hoped he could hold on a little while longer.

“Whoa! Keep that towel on, pal,” Rick cried as Blake walked out of the bathroom.

Quickly tightening the terry cloth over his lower body, Blake stared at the blond man sitting on his bed as if he owned it. “How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.